A latte, a laptop, and a lipstick rest on the table.
It’s Friday, and I am at a local coffee shop to write poetry. Briefly, I wonder how I seem to other people. I wear a rainbow dress and a green bow in my hair, a sweet and floral perfume lingering in the air. I must be quite the colorful mix, but the thought doesn’t stay for long. I catch my reflection in the mirror and smile. I have found colors that make me happy.
I open my laptop to my forty-page Google Doc, “possible quotes” that I created as a seventh-grade wannabe novelist. As I scroll through my writing for ideas, I recall my past.
******
DIRTY DIRTY DIRTY.
Ragged inhales. The platter-platter of the shower water. Like an uncontrollable beast, I scrub against the skin of my raking body. My face is wet, and I can’t breathe. There must be blood somewhere on the floor, quickly washed away. Yet, I cannot stop. I must scrub it out of me. The world spins, and I fall to the floor, my arms around my naked body, holding my red skin.
Flashbacks to the night before intrude upon my mind, and a gasp escapes before I can cover my mouth to quiet the sobs. Hopeless and useless, I give in. No matter how I scratch and scrap and burn my body, I cannot wash his hands away. He stains me, and like a detective at a crime scene, I can see the clues leading to his offense— the hand too low on my waist, the brushed-off joke about my body, his advice on dating boys. And like a detective at a crime scene, I can see the evidence— ink-black fingerprints on every part of my body he’s touched, the click of the door after he left my bedroom, the scratch of his stubble on my chin. And like a detective at a crime scene, I look for the damage— the shame I’ll carry for the years to come, the silent wars across the dinner table, my internal objectification of women. And like a detective at a crime scene, I try to console the victim— but what do I say to the sixteen-year-old girl, crying on the floor of her shower?
It took two years for me to write about what had happened. In a spoken word excerpt, I write:
My body is ready to fight. [harsher] My skin, ablaze with
Disgust and fear. [softer] I am paralyzed with
Disgust and fear. As if some
Deeply private part of me
Has been wildly, irrevocably intruded on.
I still feel your breath, ragged
In waves. Just in front of my face.
GET OFF GET OFF GET OFF
I still feel the stubble on your chin
As it scratches my cheek.
I still remember
When I finally dared open my eyes.
The overwhelming betrayal. You, whom I
Never trusted but hoped to,
Looked at me the way a
Man looks at a woman.
You had no right.
December 2022
******
The day after my assault, I tell my mom in the car. We’re parked in our driveway. I’m hyperventilating, pulling out the hair on my head. I scream, Why don’t you fucking believe me? The air is still, except it’s not. I look over, and she is a mirror: the same red, sweaty face and the same hysteria. Sobbing and voice-cracking, she screams, He’s not that type of person!
I look over, and she is a mirror: the same red, sweaty face and the same hysteria.
In the months after, I’ve learned to empathize with her. At that moment, I only saw him as the man who assaulted me. I was so blind with my grief, that I couldn’t see hers. My accusation burnt through the walls of our home, and only my mother dared to salvage the remains. How could she believe me? Of course, she could not help but deny the truth— that her daughter’s molester is her own family.
You’re making this up! She accuses, but when she sees my tear-stricken face, she softens. You hallucinated this.
So, of course, I believed her. I wanted to believe her. I hid behind the curtain and wrote it off as sleep paralysis, but three months later in the depths of my depression, I had my first real bout of sleep paralysis. Only then did I dared look into the wound. I, too, could not help but deny the truth— that the one who assaulted me is my own family.
In a prose fragment, I write:
My mom tells me to give more than I take,
but why is sex the only thing worth taking from me?
February 2023
******
In an online game, I met my friend Zeptrix. Over voice call, I tell him my story. Many conversations later, he asks, Would you ever tell this to your future partner? And, for a moment, I hesitate. Why shouldn’t I tell my partner? I tell him, Of course, but the words leave a sour taste in my mouth. Like rancid coffee, the shame keeps me awake and bitter.
The shame followed me like a shadow, like an invisible barrier that pulled me away from the rest of life. And when I started to form new relationships, I remembered the shower the morning after. And when I look down, I see the ink again. My chest is black with fingerprints; I don’t dare look between my legs. And when I look up, I see his eyes, perverted. And when I close my eyes, I can’t open them anymore. Once again, I am paralyzed, just like that night. I want to run, but how can I run out of my own body?
I held my shame tightly like an overfilled cup.
I held my shame tightly like an overfilled cup, praying no one could see the ink. I grew so scared of spilling my shame on someone else, that my shame swelled and boiled within. It took on different forms— at times, guilt, and other times, grief.
The ink splatters on the paper. I write,
In the future, will he be there?… Will he be there when I have sex with the man I love? He will cradle the side of my chest with a hand on my waist. I’d shudder at the thought, and both think I tremble with pleasure.
May 2022
******
Nearing the end of my junior year, I finally allowed my pain to become power. My AP Language and Composition teacher assigned us to write a speech on any topic we’d like to share with the class. Many of my classmates were chatting about their topics of interest. I knew what my heart yearned to write, but I was scared.
Would I out myself? Would I be reported to Child Protective Services? What would my classmates say? My mother? I started on a different essay but could not resist the temptation. I could not ignore the opportunity. When I looked into my cup, I saw the shame had taken on a different form. The ink began to bubble and boil until it spilled onto the paper. My voice could not be suppressed; I had to tell my story.
At the beginning of my speech, I could not meet anyone’s eye, but as the speech progressed, I grew more confident. I saw the first layers of my skin shed, and slowly, the ink began to fade. For the first time, I felt the weight of my abuse lifted off my shoulders.
In my speech, I use the alias Risa and tell a “friend’s” story to avoid getting reported. I say,
According to estimates from the National Crime Victimization Survey, 97% of women experience sexual harassment in their lifetimes, and 1 in 5 women are raped or sexually assaulted. According to the Crimes against Children Research Center, 1 in 5 girls is a victim of child sexual abuse. If we were a statistically proportionate class, that would be 3 girls in this room, and more than 100 girls in our school. I’m willing to bet that number is even higher.
…
You don’t know who Risa is; you don’t know who the Risas are. Nevertheless, they are among us. They are your classmates, your friends, and they can be you.
I urge you to be kind; I urge you to listen; and to the 3 students in this class, I urge you to be brave.
May 2022
******
When applying for scholarships in my senior year, I came across the Virginia PTA Spoken Word Contest. In middle school, I wanted to be a novelist, but the idea was quickly shut down by my mother, who prioritized STEM education. In high school, I only wrote excerpts and snippets, quickly stored away in “possible quotes.” The spoken word contest gave me an opportunity to write again— passionately and whole.
By my senior year, I had accepted the reality of my assault and learned to live again. With a newfound softness, I decided to write about the lessons I learned in my youth. The war was long over, but as I peeked back into the wound, I could not help but bleed ink and blood and words.
In an excerpt of my award-winning spoken-word poem “My 18 Years,” I write,
Yes, a bird with a broken leg can still fly, but I
Sit in the library, my red eyes focused, unfocused, refocused,
Staring at my unread copy of Beloved, asking “Where do I put this grief?”
My fingers blend into the pages of every book I read, trying to learn something,
I try to learn something, but
February 2023
******
I take a moment to remember the pain, but the pain no longer consumes me. I try to find my cup, but there is no cup. There is only an ink well that yearns to find its place on paper. I close my laptop and take out my journal.
In the window reflection, I see a poised woman with a soft smile. A rainbow dress and green bow. There is no more black, but there never was. My heart swells, thinking about the girl I once was. I was never dirty. I was never dirty!
With the ink, I write:
One day, the grief will sit,
comfortably, in your room
along with all your memorabilia.
It will make a home in yours and
greet you every time you come back.
And just like all shelved items,
it will fade from view and
only appear when you look for it.
April 2024